


Stop Smiling

by lil_bonsai



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Gen, Self Harm, can be considered spamano if you want to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25765036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lil_bonsai/pseuds/lil_bonsai
Summary: A famous metaphor is the one in which expressions used to hide true emotions are called “masks”. France piques Romano’s interest when he mentions something that Romano has ever so subtly observed in Spain. And so Romano wonders, what if behind a mask, there is nothing at all?
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will be my first multi-chapter story and I hope you'll enjoy it! Do tell me what you think **

France’s garden was a friend-magnet during summer. If the weather allowed it, France loved to invite dear acquaintances over for every occasion: Breakfast, dinner, wine, outside slumber party, karaoke night… It was a versatile place, that garden. For the time being the dainty glass table that stood in the middle of the garden was occupied by petite sandwiches, coffee, wine glasses and a limited variety of cheeses. Around it, France himself accompanied by two Italians.

“Ah, how exciting it will be to renovate your home, Italy!” France sighed and tucked a lock behind his ear, “How many years has it been since you spent time with big brother France?”

“Too few,” Romano spat. As he took a sip of his coffee, he saw in the corner of his eye that France and his brother were about to object to his remark, so he effectively held up his palm to shut them up temporarily. Romano put the cup down on the table. “I cannot remember saying I wanted to befriend you at all, so why Veneziano dragged  _ me  _ here I have no goddamn idea.” Laughing it off with a hearty grin, France swirled the red wine in his newly polished glass and discovered its aroma with his nose.

“Now, now, Romano, there is no such thing as hate! Even people who think they hate each other can hold a strong relationship,  _ non _ ?”

“Of hate.”

Unbothered by the comment, France put the glass to grinning lips. While Romano thought it was high time to leave the lunch “date”, as his brother had put it, the latter beamed at the romantic presentation of words from France. “It’s like you and Britain!” Veneziano said once he had swallowed a bite of his sandwich. Immediately France put his glass down and tried his hardest, at least hard enough that Romano almost didn’t hear it, not to choke on the beverage. In a calm and seemingly collected fashion, France adjusted the collar of his shirt as means of easing the sheer anger of protest within him.

“ _ Mon petit enfant _ , I think you got it a little bit wrong,” he coughed before proceeding to list all the reasons as to why Veneziano’s statement was inaccurate. Veneziano, however, smiled and nodded along completely unconvinced.

“... And lastly, back in the colony days, that poor excuse of a gastronome had no regard for anyone!” France eventually blurted out, sitting down in the chair again. He was about to open his mouth for another round of talking garbage about Britain when he caught himself before any of the worlds could escape. “Except for America, that is,” he muffled thoughtfully.

“I didn’t know there was any politeness in that bastard to begin with,” Romano huffed as he poured some milk and an excessive amount of sugar into his second cup of coffee. “Oh, you think I am joking?” France inquired, and suddenly the atmosphere around the table dropped a few levels.

“When America was still young, he once told me he didn’t like how Britain talked about him so nicely compared to others.” France drank the last of the wine in his glass. When empty, he put it down and intertwined his fingers on top of the table. “Everyone thought that whatever crude traits Britain had at the time was just his comically grumpy personality, but  _ non _ ; America sometimes told me that Britain kept rambling on about not knowing what he felt, or wishing he could one day feel something.”

“Wishing he could feel something..?” Veneziano asked, his voice carrying an undertone of concern, to which France brought the light back to the mood with a warm chuckle. “Oh, sweet  _ papillon _ , that was a long time ago! Britain seemed to hold only care about America at the time, having no consideration for others, even if it may have looked otherwise.” France winked. “But today _ , _ he is doing just  _ bien _ !”

“Hold on, you bastard,” Romano said, thus interrupting the momentum of cheerfulness. “How can someone have a personality if they don’t feel anything, huh?” After a few seconds of thoughtful silence, Veneziano raised a hand eagerly. “ _ Ve~ _ , I know!” he chirped, “He faked his personality!”

Romano lightly slapped Veneziano on the back of his head. “Who the fuck fakes a  _ whole  _ personality!?” he cried patronizingly. The slight back and forth murmuring and accusing went on for a short while before France stepped in. “I don’t know what Britain was on during that time, but he must have been good at mimicking emotions if he managed to fake his personality. After all…” The older of the three begun gathering the plates with gentleness and stacked them on top of each other. “He was expressive for someone who didn’t know what it was like to feel.”

Something twisted in Romano’s stomach.

During the time it took France to collect the tableware, the younger Italian noticed a stiff air around his brother. “Romano?” Veneziano carefully inquired, “What’s wrong?” Romano cursed under his breath for having been caught. “Nothing, stupid bastard, the food just made me sick and I want to leave.” A disheartened pout spread across Veneziano’s face as Romano put on his jacket and turned toward the exit gate. “Are you going to big brother Spain?” Veneziano asked again as he gathered the rest of the food in the basket below the table. “That is none of your damn business,” Romano seethed through his teeth as he began to walk, “ _ Ci vediamo. _ ”

As Romano walked away, Veneziano wondered whether he should shout something after him to lighten the mood, such as a reminder of when he should be at his apartment tomorrow or to say “see you” back. However, the suggestion was quickly discarded. This was just another of his brother’s pettish outbursts, Veneziano hoped.

…

Almost immediately after Romano knocked on the door, it opened and he was greeted by Spain’s characteristic vibrant smile. Hadn’t it been for the fact that Spain earlier said he couldn’t join tomorrow’s trip, nobody would have guessed that he was sick. “Welcome home!” The cheerful of the two greeted as the other one entered the house paying no heed to the absolute bombardement of sunlight. Spain was quick to take Romano’s jacket and hang it, as well as placing his shoes orderly on the shoe shelf. “How was lunch?”

“Terrible; I hate things made by that girly-haired jerkface.”

“Oh, come on, it can’t be that bad! You’re just being moody!”

Romano stopped walking and looked Spain dead in the eyes. “Listen here, you joyous  _ imbecille _ , that stuff made my stomach turn and I need to go.” After trying to counter the murderous glare, Spain popped a wide grin and laughed, patting the Italian on the back. “How good to know that you can always come back to boss Spain’s food, no?” Not being able to care any less, Romano rolled his eyes and walked toward the bathroom while Spain kept himself entertained by the statement. At least for a few seconds.

“ _ Ay _ , I almost forgot; Romano!” the older one quickly added, interrupting himself, “When are you leaving tomorrow?”

“Early as hell.”

“Let me at least make you breakfast!”

“I don’t eat that early, I’ll eat when I’m at my stupid brother’s house.”

“I can make you lunch?”

“No, thank you.”

Spain’s smile went from upbeat to slightly defeated. “I guess you will be leaving sick, little Spain alone, huh?” he muttered and scratched the back of his head. “ _ Psh _ ,” said Romano, “How sad.” Spain looked at Romano for a bit with big, pleading eyes before slowly walking toward him. Not being able to decipher Spain’s intentions by such means of approach thus not knowing what to do, Romano was caught totally off-guard when Spain opened his arms wide and closed them tightly around him. In an emotional outburst that resembled the expressiveness of the northern Italy, Spain wailed like an anxious mother reluctant to send her son to his first class trip. “Oh,  _ Romano _ !” Spain bawled, clinging to Romano.

“Let go, you jerkface bastard! Let me go to the motherfucking toilet, will you!?” Romano barked, but saw no nearby end to his misery. Spain crying into his ears as he ever-so-motherly crushed his lungs didn’t help. “But you’re my favorite person, Romano, what do I do without you?”

The cheesy statement had Romano faking exaggerated gulping sounds, resulting in Spain stepping away. “‘Favorite person’ my ass, it’s only  _ one  _ goddamn week or so!” Romano stated flatly, and pivoted out of Spain’s reach to finally head for the bathroom.

...

Whatever distress Romano’s stomach had experienced earlier had no significant result in his visit to the bathroom. Instead it had him stand before the mirror and look upon his annoyed, irked and slightly disappointed grimace. Sometimes it hit him how overt it was that he looked so bleakly at the world when the face that he constantly met in the mirror said “I am so done with this shit”. Would he do anything about it? Probably not. For now he’d rather focus on packing his suitcase since he hadn’t done that yet, than changing his way of life.

“‘ _ Persona preferita _ ’,” Romano muttered as he exited the bathroom to commence packing, “Suck my ass.” Spain’s jauntiness was as bright as teeth in advertisements for toothpaste; He was way too happy about life to not find a way to entertain himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the story's title because I hated how cliché "You're My Favorite Person" sounded xD Nevertheless, enjoy!

A little past the onset of dawn, Romano stood in the entrance with a suitcase. Having promised Spain that he would say goodbye before leaving, he was waiting for him to come downstairs. Knowing Spain’s love for sleep, however, Romano thanked himself for having told him he needed to leave earlier than he truly had to. After a while almost too long, Spain’s footsteps echoed from the staircase.

  


“Hurry up, snail-face, I don’t wanna miss no goddamn plane because of you,” Romano said rather gently given the early hour (“gently” being used very loosely). Spain chuckled quietly. “You should save ‘snail-face’ for France,” he remarked with his throaty morning voice, his sickness adding extra roughness to it. Romano snorted, but was more than delighted to hear such a comment come from Spain. He had to admit; Even if Spain got on his nerves, that in itself was an ever-so-little charm point about him that got Romano thinking that maybe, possibly and conceivably, he would miss him a little bit.

  


“Romano, is that a smile I see?” Spain gasped as his curious, green eyes closely monitored him. Romano’s instinctive response was to avert his face and put his sullen look back on, but today he didn’t feel like doing so. Instead, he let Spain embrace him. In contrast to yesterday’s hysterical “ _PLEASE DO NOT LEAVE ME”_ , this one was more intimate. Like speaking in a serene and soothing voice, “Take care of yourself”. If he wasn’t wrong, Romano sensed Spain ever so deliberately supporting his weight onto him. Romano let go of this suitcase to heed it.

  


“You’re still going to leave fragile Spain alo-”

  


“Shut up, you bastard.”

  


The last thing Romano saw before closing the door was the radiant smile that Spain always wore, which blinded him more than the ongoing sunrise. ‘Pure and benevolent’ was the image Romano decided to remember Spain by for the week ahead, and he closed the door. All that was left now was to wait for the taxi to arrive.

  


…

As a nation, at least _half_ a nation, Romano had gotten his fair share of traveling experience, so the procedure from house to heavens couldn't disinterest him more. The one thing he still couldn't find himself comfortable with though was waiting for the destined passenger who would sit with him during flights. While Romano was a straightforward and brutally honest man, he placed a certain value in decent hospitality toward strangers because he cared for others' perception of him, and often found himself torn between these choices when sitting next to a passenger who rubbed him the wrong way. Thus he always found himself anticipating and insecure when having to wait for them; Looking at every passing passenger and occasionally praying "Please, not you".

  


As a measure to counter these hostile nerves, Romano picked up one of those thick in-flight magazines in the seat pocket in front of him. Closing out the many conversations in languages of Romance and Germanic descent, he opened the magazine on a random page and started reading about the newly launched wristwatch collection from Swatch. As his eyes loosely scanned the page, thoughts like "This could fit the tomato bastard" and/or "This could never fit the potato bastard" circulated in his mind. Romano turned the page.

  


Ah, yes, the miscellaneous things that nobody cared about, but enough to read it aboard a plane because what else were they supposed to do; Pop culture, advertisements for perfumes, " _Head in the clouds: Life as a flight stewardess_ ", " _Self-help: How to discover your emotions_ ", tourism information, in-flight menu- _Hold on_ , Romano's internal dialogue spoke up, interrupting the flow of his vision.

  


_"Self-help: How to discover your emotions._

  


_Not all of us are gifted with the skill of intrapersonal intelligence._

  


Romano snorted as he could think of at least twenty people at the top of his head.

  


_"It is in fact a trait of the common man to have a hard time labeling what he feels. Some of us barely allow the expressiveness of emotion to graze our face, while others have the complete opposite problem._

  


Another twenty people.

  


_Are_ you _one of the millions of people who feel like they cannot put their feelings into words?_

  


"Probably."

  


_Perhaps even more extremely, are_ you _one of the few people who has at least once asked yourself if you have any at all?"_

  


" _Psh_ , _che stupido_ ," Romano muttered nonchalantly while his eyes still lingered on the last sentence. It wasn't for long, but long enough that Romano got to the point of asking himself what in the ever-living hell he was doing. Telling himself he didn't think much of it and that the "whole goddamn article" could burn in hell, he stuffed the magazine into his backpack after having made sure no one looked his way.

  


When looking out the window as the altitude increased, Romano's thoughts seemed to constantly circle back to a certain sick idiot who was probably at home hoarsely singing karaoke for the shampoo bottles.

  


...

" _Ve_ ~, _fratello_!" Veneziano rejoiced when opening the door for his older brother. "Your apartment looks stupid," Romano greeted back and swiftly invited himself inside. Upon entering, he noticed how much the apartment had changed since his last visit. Nowadays, although reluctant to admit it, he enjoyed spending time at Spain's house thus leaving huge time pockets in which he didn't stay in the Italian household. To put it in perspective, Romano hadn't seen Seborga in at least ten years, compared to Veneziano's once-a-month phone calls about the micronation.

  


"I can't even remember how it looked like last time you were here!" Veneziano chirped as he followed his older brother wherever he went to sightsee, "But I've modernized it a lot!"

  


"It was a little less than half a year ago," Romano curtly replied as he touched the crumbling wallpaper in the hallway. Eventually he arrived at the living room where France was already sitting - On the floor, worth noticing.

  


"What the hell, what are you doing on the floor, dammit?" Romano asked rather demandingly as Veneziano sat down on the opposite side on the _down-to-earth_ table. "Japan gave this to me for my birthday this year!" he said and leaned over the furniture.

  


"It's called a _kotatsu_ ," France added.

  


" _Kotatsoo_ , my ass, where the _fuck_ is the dining table we used to have, Veneziano!?"

  


The younger Italian cheerily pointed to the corner of the room where a huge, auburn, wooden table was surreally malplaced with chairs stacked on top.

  


"I had no idea where to put it, but I wanted to show off this awesome table instead!" Veneziano explained, patting the table repeatedly as if to gesture Romano to try coming underneath the blanket.

  


"Whatever, can we just fucking clean already?"

  


"We have to wait for Germany and Prussia! They're big and strong and can help lift the heavy things first!"

  


Romano felt strangely targeted at Veneziano's comment and had a sudden urge to defend his pride.

  


"I-I'm strong and dependable too, you bastards!"

  


"I didn't say anything…" France pouted. After yet another round of bickering between the brothers, France had to step in by gently putting his hands on Romano's shoulders. "Won't you come and try the kotatsu, _mon cher_ Romano?"

  


The remark of affection sent ominous shudders down Romano's spine, so he immediately got France off him and flopped down on the floor. Pulled the blanket over his legs.

  


" _Ve~_ , isn't it great?" Veneziano sang droopily as he put his head on the table. "Fine, whatever, but isn't it kinda hot since it's summer?" Romano pointed out skeptically, resting his cheek in his palm. Veneziano smiled. "I just want people to feel the warmth of it, so it doesn't bother m-"

  


" _HALLO_ , THE AWESOMENESS HAS ARRIVED!"

  


A shrilling voice thundered through the walls of the apartment followed by an obnoxious laugh, and a defeated " _Bruder_ , please". Veneziano immediately got to his light and jumpy feet to greet the two at the door.

  


"Shit, it's the potato jerkheads," Romano muttered irritated and assumed the position his brother had just left; Draped over the table with his right cheek resting on the back of his right hand. France sighed with a little chuckle. "Are you sad that Spain couldn’t come along with you?" he suggested. Now Romano's nose faced the table. "Why do you care, _snail-face_ ," he spat, a short-lived satisfaction spreading throughout him as the nickname ever-so perfectly came out.

  


"You should be glad this wasn't the old days! Back when you were still a cute, little child, Spain was so desperate to keep you by his side!" France said dramatically, but also mockingly, not realizing that the words hit Romano differently than he had planned. "Of course, you jerk, he fought you over me like four times!" Romano replied, face still buried in the table. He played along with the conversation, hoping that he could steer it in the direction he wanted.

  


"Oh, but Romano! Whenever you went home and left him alone, I'd find him in shambles! It was _terrible_!"

  


"The fuck do you mean ' _en_ _shamblés'_.”

  


"You're probably better of not knowing or else you might start to feel bad and apologize~!"

  


France got to his feet when he noticed the three others were approaching the living room. He subtly winked at Romano. "It is a dead case from long ago now, _mon cher_ , I am just teasing you a bit."

  


The Germans finally entered the living room, much to Romano's dismay, and by the clear formulation of problem, hypothesis and instructions from Germany, the group of five were finally able to shine up the Italian home. Romano didn't want to admit it, but with help from that damn potato head, he was happy to realize that he could soon return to his safe and warm tomato haven.


	3. Chapter 3

Three days had now passed, and Italy’s flat was past halfway finished. Late enough in the evening that Germany became wary of disturbing the neighbors, the quintet were gathered around the heated kotatsu and chattering happily. Or, rather, all five of them were gathered but only four of them were taking part in the conversation.

"West, let's have a table like this, it's gonna be awesome," Prussia suggested eagerly as he inspected the foreign piece of furniture. Veneziano pouted. "But then you are going to steal all the fame from me!" he pointed out, seemingly "hugging" the kotatsu as if someone had threatened him to hand it over. "You're too social to 'lose fame', you have nothing to worry about," Germany sighed, to which Prussia slapped him on the back and added a mischievous "Unlike you." Prussia and Veneziano enthusiastically talked about the kotatsu, which later derailed and touched upon semantic topics. France joined in with some commentaries and inquiries here and there, Germany eventually lied down and swam in the comfort of the blanket, while Romano had long ago tuned out of the conversation. He had fallen halfway asleep on the table, but was occasionally woken up by Prussia who was just being himself.

After a certain number of times having been woken from his hypnagogic state, Romano excused himself to bed.

"Ah, already?" Veneziano asked as his smile sunk into a dejected glower.

"There's lots of shit to do tomorrow too and I wanna be goddamn prepared for it," Romano replied. In their respective languages, the others wished him a good night, and Romano was off to bed.

…

Repeating last night's cycle of showering, changing, brushing his teeth and finally glaring himself down in the mirror for no reason, Romano entered one of the guest rooms. Ever since his younger brother had started hanging with Germany, Romano had gotten used to sleeping in a guest room with a single bed because he didn't want to catch  _ germanites _ . Veneziano may look innocent, but Romano knew all too well how many times Veneziano had let Germany sleep in the bed that the brothers originally shared.

While Romano sorted out some of the things in his backpack, he noticed the magazine from the plane ride. He was about to put it away and continue his so-called organizing, but again he caught himself thinking of a certain someone while his eyes idled on the front page. A curiosity and the need of an answer kept him from discarding the article he had read earlier, and before long, he found himself in bed reading the rest of it, starting from the beginning.

" _ Before you read any further, please understand that the following statements and procedures are based on statistical evidential results and may therefore not work for everyone. _

"Whatever," Romano mumbled.

_ "The first step to discovering your emotions is to decide if you have any emotions at all. Do you sometimes feel a stinging sensation in your chest, your heart beating faster, or the urge to jump through a fully-bloomed meadow? Chances are you aren't a psychopath (commonly misconceived as a 'sadist', but in reality refers to someone who was born with a lack of empathy and emotions). _

Again, Romano sensed something twist in his gut. Unlike yesterday when he shrugged it off as the lunch served at France's place, he was now certain that it had everything to do with the information he perceived. Not that he felt upset or personally attacked, or hurt. But rather… Something didn't feel right. If his mind consisted of gears and those gears had been turning just fine until now, this was the moment when one of them suddenly needed to be oiled. Or perhaps if Romano's mind was an hourglass, and its sand had been flowing seamlessly, a clump of sand bigger than the hole it fell through had clogged it and halted the flow. And for some reason, it was the face of Spain who appeared in his mind when-

Oh, who was he kidding. Yes, Romano had felt a similarity between what France had described in Britain to what Romano had observed in Spain over the years. Yes, he had read that article because he wanted to find out if what he had observed was correct. And yes, Romano was absolutely itching to call Spain up and check on him.

Doing his best to push aside his pride and displeasure for showing compassion, Romano dialed Spain's number on his phone and waited for an answer.

" _ Diga _ !" came the hoarse, yet gentle, voice through the telephone line.

"Listen here you fuckface bastard," Romano said, making sure his voice stayed low profile in regards to the others in the flat.

"Romano, you're calling me!" Spain quietly exclaimed on the other end, his youthful joy singing though Romano's ears, " _ Qué tal _ ?"

"We're doing good… I guess…" Romano replied.

"Are you soon finished? Ah, I can't wait to pay your brother a visit soon!"

"Yeah…"

"But it must be so crowded with all five of you there at once! I'm almost a bit glad I didn't go, or else the floor might have collapsed,  _ ahaha _ !"

As Spain rambled on and on about how much he missed Romano, Romano himself had problems expressing what he had originally called for. First of all, how much should he explain about the situation he found himself in? Should he begin with the lunch at France's house and what he had said about Britain? Should he begin with the article? Or was Romano gutsy enough to ask Spain straight away?

That was, if he knew what he wanted to ask in the first place.

"Spain, you bastard."

Surprised at the solemnity of his own voice, Romano removed the phone from his ear for a few seconds to process the mood he had just created.

"Y-yes?" Spain replied, having caught the sudden atmospheric change.

Romano gulped.

"Did- do you ever _ … Ehm  _ ... _ " _

Spain waited a while before daring to interrupt.

"Romano?"

After nearly a minute of hesitation, Romano sharply inhaled till he had filled his abdomen, before letting it all out in a liberating sigh.

"When you said I was your 'favorite person', how can you... Ah, shit…"

Just as quickly as Romano had gained the confidence to ask, he cursed as he lost sight of the thread that strung his words into a coherent sentence. 

_ … Know that I’m your favorite if you can’t feel anything? _

Suddenly very disheartened and frustrated that he had lost touch with such an important and personal question, he realized how much of Spain's love and affection for him was never returned. Gaining confidence and wanting to get closer, only to be rejected either by the person or due to loss of coherence; Was this how it felt?

Romano took a slow and deep breath in, preparing to string his words together again, when he heard Spain faintly whimper something over the phone.

" _ Cómo sabes de eso..? _ "

A silence settled in an unsettling fashion over the telephone line. Was Romano supposed to answer ‘how he knew about that’? What was 'that' in the first place? Had he accidentally hit a secret that Spain had wished no one to ever know of? Romano could hear his own heartbeat.

"Spain, what are you doing right now?" he asked as his mind wandered back and forth between Spain on the phone and France’s joking remark about how he'd find Spain a broken man back in the days when left alone.

Spain burst into a hearty laughter.  _ Lightening the mood again, so annoyingly like him _ .

"Lighting a scented candle, what about you?" the older one said after his laughter was cut off by a sore cough.

"I'm about to sleep, you dumbass."

"I thought so. It's so lat-  _ Ay _ !"

"What did you do now?"

Spain sharply sucked in some air.

"Nothing at all!"

Romano let Spain talk about his supposed "scented candle" for a while and the burn he had supposedly just gotten. However, the more he let Spain ramble about his little situation, the more wrong and unsound the gears in his mind turned. Romano's gut feeling felt in whatever way birds must feel when they sense a storm coming; Like a dog sniffing out a coming heart attack in his owner. With a low voice, Romano cut off Spain from talking anymore.

" _ Buona notte,  _ you bastard."

From the way Spain stopped talking and chuckled, he was probably confused as to why Romano would cut the conversation so suddenly. Spain sighed comprehensively… And a bit longingly.

" _ Buenas noches, Romanito. _ "

When Romano had finally switched the lights off for the day and stared at the ceiling in the darkness that his eyes hadn't gotten used to yet, he thought of only one thing; Go home to Spain and make sure that whatever France had been talking about, truly was a thing of the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next and final chapter will be LONG you guys!


	4. Chapter 4

Yet again Romano was greeted by the gentle kiss of dawn as he tied his shoelaces. All morning he had gone out of his way to be as quiet as a mouse and had miraculously managed to drag his heavy suitcase from his room to the entrance without waking anyone. If he didn’t know better, Germany would probably wake up in not too long so he made sure to be quick. 

Romano had left a note on the fridge saying “ _good luck with the renovation. call u latr_ ” in Italian so that as few as possible would start asking about it, but also so he could feel a sense of kindness for letting others know that he had left. And yet, even after all the measures Romano had taken to secure his leaving as soundless as possible, somebody greeted him in the hallway.

“Leaving so early, Romano?” France asked in a whisper. Romano had an instant urge to scream at him, but there was something bothersome about France’s expression. Romano observed it for a short second and realized that the feeling he had had in his gut this whole trip probably wasn’t just his imagination or overthinking.

“You bastard, you know something,” Romano mumbled, a solemn disappointment in his voice that France had never witnessed before. France didn’t even feel like trying to defend himself. 

“You should go.”

“If you woke up this fucking early just to tell me that, I was already about to do it.”

After a shaky inhale, Romano turned around and left.

…

During the flight Romano tried to catch some z’s since he hadn’t had a wink of sleep the previous night. It was a short flight so he hoped he could fill more than half of it by spending time in his subconsciousness, but gave up on trying after 20 minutes. In the following ten minutes, he spent time reading the in-flight menu in a ridiculously meticulous manner; He studied the font, the font size, the layout of the page, whether the menu items would taste good hypothetically speaking, if it was a smooth transition from the pages before, et cetera. When he put away the magazine, he wanted to call Spain to ask how he was doing, but cursed under his breath when he remembered that turning off flight-mode was prohibited. Eventually Romano found out that the best thing he could do was to let his mind worry. Therefore, he imagined the worst possible outcomes; Coming home to see Spain who hadn’t slept for the whole time Romano was gone, coming home to see Spain malnourished and too weak to stand, or perhaps coming home to hear that Spain was in hospital due to reckless behavior…

With his heart accelerating in his chest, knee bouncing and the inside of his cheek bit in order to keep his concern in check, Romano sat soundlessly in his seat for the rest of the flight.

…

Finally Romano could see the house, bathing in early sunlight. Hopefully he’d come home to silence because Spain was in his beloved state of sleep. 

After a little “ _Gracias_ ” from Romano, the taxi drove off. Romano stared after it till it rounded the street corner and disappeared, as means of delaying the confrontation he stood before. Now there was only a door handle separating him from a possible disaster, and after everything France had hinted at him thus far, there was no way that the ominous air around the house was but a paranoid fabrication. After unlocking the door, Romano pushed the handle down.

_Wait a minute._

Did Romano want to go through that door, though? If it turned out that the worst possible outcome was real, that meant that a huge responsibility rested on his shoulders. If it was true that Spain was dependent on Romano’s presence to function, what position did Romano have to refuse or accept such responsibility, if said responsibility was relevant at all? He could turn around and avoid knowing what had happened, never come back and hopefully leave him and Spain as a thing of the past. But at the same time…

When Romano opened the door, the only thing that illuminated the house besides the sun weakly shining through the curtains, was a tiny, flickering light.

“H-hey…” Romano insecurely called out, hoping nobody would answer. He carefully hung up his jacket and placed his shoes on the shelf, leaving the suitcase by the entrance. How strangely forlorn this otherwise kind and softhearted house felt as he silently made his way through. He saw little due to the poor illumination, but it was bright enough that things seemed exactly how it looked like when he left.

Romano reached the living room and realized that the flickering light was a lit and untended candle. He looked around promptly, but there seemed to be no sign of anybody watching it, so he blew it out. The mist danced through the air and left a fruity scent, and Romano decided to leave the living room to search for signs of life in the kitchen.

Other than a clean bowl malplaced on the counter, it didn’t seem like anybody had spent time in the kitchen recently. Firstly, the usual smell from recent days of cooking was completely gone, and secondly, the few tomatoes in the wooden bowl had gone bad. _Spain, what the hell is going on…_ Romano’s inner voice uttered as he silently rummaged through the drawers and cupboards.

Continuing deeper into the house, which felt like that of a stranger, Romano’s heart rate started to slow down as he realized that Spain could be asleep after all. As quiet as it was now, anything else was impossible. Spain was vocal to the extent that he was constantly humming or singing something, talking to himself, talking to visitors or on the phone, or all at once. Peace-loving Romano often complained about how there was never a single second of quiet during the day, to which Spain would chipper a tiny apology, and forget about it five minutes later. 

Spain was asleep, Romano thought until he opened the door to the bathroom and saw a shadow-clad figure on the floor.

In the swiftest move, Romano jumped back in sheer fright and nearly hit the wall. His heartbeat had sped up a hundredfold as he vainly fumbled after the lightswitch, and it wasn’t before he had given up and stood with his back glued to the wall, that he was greeted for his homecoming.

“Fucking bastard, don’t scare me!” Romano cried, his complaint nonchalantly pushed aside by Spain’s laughter.

“I wondered who was lurking inside my house, but it turns out it was just you!”

Even on the floor with his head resting on the wall, Spain welcomed Romano back with a smile made of sunshine while happily chatting nineteen to the dozen. He had probably thrown up and not bothered getting back to bed, hence his malplacement on the bathroom floor. While Romano had been thinking Spain was causing harm to himself, it turned out that he just consumed a little too much alcohol which was absolutely not worth the hassle Romano had gone through.

“So you were awake?” Romano asked and cursed himself for having worried so much. 

“Ah, _pues_ …” Spain lightly scratched the side of his neck, “I was just about to go to sleep.”

Romano could almost feel the floor as his chin dropped.

“You were about to sleep _now_!? Didn’t you fucking sleep last night?”

“Don’t worry, Roma, it’s not what you th-”

When Romano succeeded in turning on the light, he noticed all the things he hadn’t seen in the dark.

“ _S-Spagna_ …?”

Wearing nothing but a t-shirt and boxers, the exposed _hideousness_ of Romano’s absence screamed at his face; From the awful bed hair to the shadows underneath his eyes, the red and white scratches on his neck and arms, some of which cutting through blisters from inflicted burns, his worn down nails, as well as the fact that he had just been throwing up in the toilet, Romano let the image of this _stranger_ permeate his mind. This wasn’t a sleepless and malnourished Spain he had come home to, it was _both_ and more, and from the way Spain’s sheepish smile deteriorated and became a remorseful frown, this was something Spain had gone out of his way to try and hide.

Lost in a sea of possible responses, Romano took a step back, something he immediately regretted doing.

“Sorry-” he instinctively added to justify his action, but knew it had no effect on any of them. As if to make matters worse, when Spain slowly tried to get up to explain himself, Romano took yet another step back.

“Repulsive, huh?” Spain chuckled, a regrettable amount of pain and shame seeping through it. Romano knew Spain wanted some kind of response, _anything_ , as long as it wasn’t an indecipherable silence, but knew not what to say. He wanted to apologize again, but Spain’s head was hanging and Romano couldn’t reach his eyes.

Upon further thought, Romano had seen this sight before. Not to this extent, but when Spain, or even Romano himself, had bad dreams from past history, they’d find each other with their head in the toilet bowl. However, Romano had never seen Spain this crippled before. What was Romano supposed to say? Or, he knew what to say, but he had no idea how to project it into the real world, and every second that ticked by was a curse Romano aimed at himself for being so bad at expressing himself.

_Expressing himself._

_“Are_ you _one of the millions of people who feel like they cannot put their feelings into words?”_

_I absolutely, fucking am._ If Romano couldn’t label what he felt, the only way would be to let himself speak before thinking. That was why his roaring voice now thundered throughout the walls, and called for Spain who felt so much more farther away than he truly was.

“Listen to me, you dumb fuck,” Romano demanded, nearly out of breath, and towered over his Boss. “I don’t fucking care what you think of me at this moment, but fuck you, I’ve been worried out of my mind because a certain snail-face told me some shit about you not being able to be alone in the past; Is that still true?”

If the top of Spain’s head could speak a thousand words, all of them would have carried regret and hesitation. For a long while, so long that Romano wanted to grab his collar and violently drag him to his feet, Spain sat silently immobile. Then he got up. He walked past Romano, made a brief eye contact when he exited as if to gesture him to come along.

Romano stood outside his own bedroom and adversely looked inside. He kept a careful eye on Spain who beckoned him to sit down with him, as if Romano were a child again. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,” Spain said gently, holding off the space next to him with his hand until Romano decided to heed his request. A creaking sound echoed through the room when weight was placed onto the mattress, but Romano sat comfortably with his arms hugging himself. Spain was once again wearing a smile plastered on his face.

Then there was nothing.

The only sound present was the sound of their inner voices counting seconds and searching for words. Usually Spain had no problem sitting in silence for a while as all he cared about was pleasurable company, but Romano could sense a long way that this wasn’t the case at that moment. But _God_ , was Romano unsure of what to say! He had already yelled at Spain for lack of sleep, but he wanted to scold him for it again. And again and again and again. Again, until this absolute idiot understood that a good night’s sleep was important. Secondly, what the _hell_ were all those scars about? They were red, white, fresh, bloody and detestable, with bandaids and whatnot placed randomly in an excusable attempt to hide them, making Romano’s blood boil with rage because this meant that Spain had been hiding his hurt because Romano was an unreliable confidant. Thirdly, had Spain no idea how unsightly he looked with that unhealthily pale complexion and hair that looked as if it came straight from the streets? Romano would admit that Spain’s smile was one of the dearest, most precious things he had seen in his life, but how utterly _disrespectful_ of Spain to use such a pure trait for such a crude reason; To lie up in Romano’s face and say he was doing fine when he in fact was not. Also-

As if snapping back to reality, Romano’s eyes met with Spain’s, which were wide and surprised, but Romano could not decipher if that was a good or bad thing.

“R-Romano…?”

About to curse Spain to the ninth circle of hell was when Romano realized...

“Did I say all that out loud, dammit-”

In embarrassment and regret, Romano turned his face away and wished for nothing more than to leave the room. He wasn’t even aware that he was about to get up until Spain gently tugged at his sleeve. Romano eyed Spain for a few seconds before sitting back down on the bed. He turned his face away so he wouldn’t have to look at the hideous marks on Spain’s body. Never in his life had Romano felt so skeptical toward this man, not even during the ruthless days of the Spanish Empire, as he did now. The farther back Romano remembered, the more the creeping feeling of Spain having hidden an unbearable pain for an ungodly amount of time consumed him and made him realize that not only was he turning away because he pitied Spain, but also because of the guilty awareness that Romano’s childish insolence could be a reason why Spain let himself suffer in silence.

“ _Heh_ … _Lo siento,_ Romano,” Spain chuckled, probably thinking Romano praised him for having concluded this miserable interaction. Instead, Romano sharply inhaled and clasped his hands onto Spain’s cheeks and forced him to look him in the eyes.

“Stop. Smiling,” Romano nearly hissed, to which Spain’s sheepishness morphed into confusion.

“Roma-”

“Stop. Smiling.”

“ _Ahah,_ I don’t understand-”

Romano’s hands fell to Spain’s shoulders, and with red cheeks screaming of embarrassment, Romano’s fingers nearly dug through his shirt, giving Spain a thorough jolt.

“ _Cazzo_ , Spain, if you’re not feeling like smiling on the inside then what the hell is the point in trying to convince the world that you are!?” Romano yelled, feeling as if the eye contact he maintained with Spain was a first time in years. “As a lazy person I’ll never understand why you’re making yourself unnecessary do work! Why the hell didn’t you tell, _I don’t know_ , Austria or Belgium or France or _me_ for help? Fuck, that’s what friendship-or-whatever-the-fuck-it-is is for! Or maybe we were the only ones who thought you were our friend or some shit- _God dammit_ , _Spagna,_ you are so fucking stupid-”

“I have to smile, Romano, or else the sun will stop shining on my house.”

“... Huh?”

Romano backed off a few inches. The smile that had previously been comically confused now seemed like a dam constructed to prevent a flood.

“If the sun doesn’t shine, then…”

He could see Spain biting the inside of his cheek to keep up the facade, much like how Romano himself had tried his hardest not to have a nervous breakdown during the plane ride. Romano’s heart sank at the sight of it.

“Our precious tomatoes won’t grow without the sun,” were Spain’s final words before his lustrous smile broke apart.

Preparing for a storm of tears and “I’m sorry”-s, Romano was utterly taken aback when he met the face that had been hidden away for hundreds of years.

“Spain..?”

The eyes were open alright, but Romano felt as if he couldn’t get through to them. The usual tension in the eyebrows were gone, the curve in his lips had become a straight line, and it was as if Spain had just removed a mask. Usually such “masks” would hide a pained, tear-stained semblance, which was why Romano couldn’t stop staring when he saw that underneath the surface of Spain’s facade, there was nothing.

“I don’t… Feel stuff,” Spain muttered, “I don’t really understand it myself. When you leave me, I feel sick and that I should punish myself for being such a terrible Boss to my former colonies. My fingers itch a lot so I scratch things… But when you come back, I don’t feel particularly happy either; I just stop feeling sick. All I can feel are urges to do things.”

As the statement called, there was no emotion to his words. They were flat and monotonous, honest and brutal. This wasn’t Spain. This was _not_ the Spain with whom Romano had spent hundreds of years. This man who sat next to Romano in _Romano’s_ bedroom was a person he had never met before, yet the voice he used to strum his somber words remained ever so familiar.

“I don’t know how Britain re-gained his, but I wish I could have followed in those footsteps; Life was more exciting with emotions. Then I hid them away, and now I can’t, what to say, _find_ them.”

“So all this time that I’ve spent with you, whatever stupid affection you showed for me was a lie?”

Spain's eyes spared open as he looked at Romano.

“I, no- Romano-”

“This whole ‘favorite person’ shit is just some act so I won’t leave your turbulent ass alone, and that all you wanted with me was to gain power?" Romano chuckled before standing up, towering over Spain to look down on him, "And here I thought you felt sad and guilty, but your ass was just pretending to!?"

No matter how heartbroken Spain managed to make his face look, Romano had no idea how to suppress the disappointment and anger that gnawed at his own heart.

“Now that you’ve already had my land and lost it, that means that my business with you is done, doesn’t it? And that I could have left this house motherfucking long ago hadn’t it been for the goddamn fact that- that I _enjoy_ being with you and I thought you enjoyed being with me, but turns out that that smile of yours is just a big, fat l-”

... But Spain had always been there for Romano. He had been comprehensive and affectionate to the degree that Romano sometimes didn’t feel overshadowed by not being the one people referred to as “Italy”. Maybe the emotions behind his acts were non-existent, but it was impossible that Spain had put up with Romano’s misbehavior only for the sake of power. He had even gone so far as to spoil Romano to hell while he himself wore nothing but rags. Additionally, Spain wasn’t trying to make Romano feel guilty when leaving except for the playful pleads to stay; Spain had always, and still, wanted the best for Romano. Romano just hated the way Spain had shown it.

Somberly, Romano sat down again. He glanced over at Spain’s marred forearm before taking his dry hand in his own, resting them on his lap. His eyes grazed over the burn marks, scratches and poorly patched up cuts, before dumping his head onto his shoulder. How silly it was that some of the cuts were shaped like happy curves.

“Stop smiling already, you bastard.”

“The sun connects people and makes tomatoes grow. I can’t,” Spain replied indifferently as he let Romano internally chastise his wounds. After all, he didn’t feel embarrassed by it. 

“I _do_ enjoy being with you. I like it so much that I want to feel the joy of appreciating your company. If I never raised you I would have never wanted to feel emotions again, but I do.”

“Is that what you really want?”

“... _Así es._ ”

A tingling sensation in the corners of his eyes made Romano get up from the bed, and leave Spain to dawdle alone in the cultivated sunrise. The tears that eventually rolled down Romano’s cheeks were tinted bittersweetly; Finally Spain had relied on Romano, but the responsibility was almost too great. Spain had finally opened up about a painful secret, but the fact that Romano risked spending hundreds of years more in a completely one-sided relationship was a stake almost too high to keep it. But in return for the unconditional kindness and warmth Spain had shown him through all these years, as a brother or a friend or a lover or a guardian, Romano wanted nothing more now than to see his favorite smile in all its candidness and genuinity. If the only thing Spain could feel was a desire to feel the emotions he had once buried, then _goddamn_ , would Romano dig and dig until he found them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that was a blast! So this whole idea came to me when I read this headcanon on Pinterest that Spain doesn’t feel nor understand pain (source: 'aph.headcanon' on tumblr, submitted by a now non-existent user called 'absolutdnx'), which I thought was intriguing, so I took inspiration from that idea. Thank you for reading, everyone ^^


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